Not Really Wasting Time

[[I had to clean the house, which was badly neglected.]]

Plagiarism creeps into my dreams.
The judges spot it
And they have knives at their disposal.
There is no space to move stately
Asleep and uncertain at a lover’s side.
In relationships of ill defined importance
Are feverish and pained recollections of monsters.
Without the tincture of stricken heat
Certainty awakes at the boundary of sobriety.
Disaster lurks in conquering your conscious refusal to touch.
The god Shiva brandishes his arms.
He sends a message to future conquerors.
There is no room to stretch your ambitions beyond conjecture,
Even with hoards of topical knowledge on ancient culture.
Embedded in the nerves of your palms:
Despair of the ruined prize,
Most relished and hidden thought of the god.
Indian high crowned deity,
Lost in a sea of global entropy,
Let nothing like my adjectival nightmares enter your mind.
Shiva lurks in the mirror.
He waits on the other side,
And he torpidly forgives intelligence.
The stench of my mind stretching out too far,
Out of my body and out of the frame,
Expands,
Curls about the air before his gaze,
While Sphinx-like and forever still souls
Of almost dead drug addicts rise up see the look on my face
When I catch my first glimpse of hell.
Before my titanic caste
They prostrate themselves and beg for mercy.
Disgust of repetition should sicken the observer.
Only a tightened stomach
In the throes of nausea
Could give testimony about the event.
The mirror heals in the corner,
Just within the realm of reality.
And magical tapestries give eloquent bows
Just out of sight in the study.
How could this soul refuse
The noble sanctuary of dreamy opium
As long as memory of the thunder clap of wired fear still lives?
Perfection is greater in innocence,
And the stuff of youth rapidly diminishes.
With no return to someone waiting happily,
With nothing in the final assault on the self,
Heaven warm and welcome just out of reach,
You feel the chill of the space one must leap to leave the body,
Colder still the fall through the chasm never bridged.
There is no road to the home of time,
There is only a precipice and your courage.
The crags of the wind's true freedom
Might as well be hidden in your pockets.
You settle slowly down
Into sleeps of slow tided ocean wrapped destiny.
Conjunctive truth occurs far away from the ideal
But it does pursue definition.
You are asleep next to someone you do not know.
There is no room to move around.
The room closes in.
You give out a suffocated sound, and you think
That you have woken up
But all things that glitter are not gold.